Through The Flames
by Irisforever
Summary: Missing scenes from the night of the Queen Vic fire, and what happened with Christian and Syed, before, during and after.  Told from Christian's POV.


**For the lovely people of WFCTGIO - Dedicated to you all **- some of our missing scenes from the time of the Vic Fire. All from Christian's POV.

**Through The Flames **

I've been sitting here watching him sleep for half an hour. Watching him breathing in and out, a little flicker of movement behind his eyelids; he must be dreaming. No nightmares though, thank goodness. Of course, it's not unusual for me to watch him sleeping. It's something I still sometimes do, delighting in watching him in his silent other world, laying in our bed. Thinking of simple things like that cause me unbelievable joy - _our_ bed, _our_ flat. I remember Tam phoning up a couple of weeks ago to see if he could come round, and Syed saying, can you wait a bit, _'we're just about to have our dinner'._ These things are a marvel to me. And watching him sleep in front of me now, I marvel at the miracle of his escape, this evening, and how these new wonderful things could have been taken from me again in a moment. A tear slips down my cheek and I brush it away, hastily. But they keep coming, falling down my face at regular intervals, even though I'm not making any sound. My throat is tight with constriction, pent up sobs, but I don't want to wake him – I just want to watch him, sleeping, peaceful and safe in our bed. To think I could have lost him is a horror I cannot comprehend.

Yet I cannot stop remembering...over and over, the sounds from earlier this evening...they echo around and around in my brain. I shudder. The flames shooting out through the top of the Vic, filling the air with a blackening, sickening smell, and the awful roaring sound. The screaming all around and the sheer nightmare of how _long_ it all seemed to go on for. Yet at the same time, events seemed to be a blur, time was both speeded up and slowed down, in an odd way. That is terror.

I was supposed to have been home by 7pm; we were going to Janine's wedding reception. I don't even like the girl, but he shared a flat with her when he first came to live here and it was the first time we'd been invited to anything as a couple, so it was a bit of an occasion. But I was late. My session with a client had overrun; I was on a visit to a gym in Stratford where I sometimes met clients to use the facilities and had to get the tube back. Stupidly, I'd let her keep me talking about her diet problems, her relationship with her awful boyfriend, trying to make a polite exit while she droned on and on. He'd rung me on the mobile to say he was going ahead to the pub, heaven knows why. He wasn't mad with me for being delayed, but wouldn't wait any longer and was oddly determined to go out by himself.

"Christian, stop fussing, so what if Mum and Dad might be there? I've got to learn to show my face in public without cringing and I've got to stand on my own two feet, I'll be alright without you for a while – I can't let what people think control me anymore, I can't spend the rest of my life feeling _uncomfortable_. Everyone's already over there. I'm going now, don't worry about me – I'll chat to Janine and to Tam. Well, I'll chat to him if Mum and Dad aren't watching"! He laughed in a hollow kind of way. "Just get over as soon as you can".

He spoke in his excitable voice, with that slightly bossy tone that made my heart melt, and I had a sudden moment of déjà vu and was transported back to our early days together, at Marsala Queen. In particular the way he said Chris-ti-an, pronouncing the t in the middle. He was rushing to get off the phone, a bit breathless, and I let him go. There was no stopping him, he was out to prove a point to himself, and I knew what Syed was like when he wanted to prove a point. If this was something he needed to do for himself then I just had to let him get on with it. It was so long since I'd come out, and although it's not something you ever completely forget, I realised time had probably dulled my memory. I needed to check myself often to make sure I was letting him deal with it the way he wanted, not to push him too much, or hold him back when he was ready to move to another stage. I had a suspicion Zainab and Masood might be there though, if Tam was going, and it worried me.

I sprinted to the tube, determined to get home in double quick time. I was nearly an hour late. As the tube train approached Walford East, I noticed an orange glow in the night sky, very bright, - then as we got nearer I realised something very odd must be happening. I'm surprised they let us off the train – but thank God they did; the driver obviously didn't understand there was something going on. I ran down the stairs of the station, already aware of screaming and shouting. I just knew it was a fire, and I don't know why, but I just _knew_ it had to be the pub – I rounded the corner and the appalling and unbelievable sight of the Queen Vic in flames greeted me. I looked around frantically, trying to see if Syed was on the square, then suddenly Roxy was right in front of me, hysterical and crying, screaming that there were people still inside. I surged with panic and adrenalin and instinctively ran toward the door of the pub, but before I got there it opened in front of me and Tamwar, Masood, and Zainab almost fell out onto the pavement. I realised Zainab was dragging something crumpled looking, and in that same split second I let out an anguished cry, realising it was Syed. The next thing I remember, we were all by the wall in front of their house...they didn't seem to register me. Everyone was transfixed by the blaze. Roxy and Ronnie were still screaming, everything was chaos and I didn't understand what was happening. Syed remained on the pavement in a crumpled heap, he was dazed, and had a cut on his head, blood running out of his beautiful temple and trickling down his cheek. He was confused and wild eyed, and I crouched down beside him. Before I could even speak an almighty blast exploded outwards from the Vic, showering the screaming crowds with wood and glass, and then another followed, and another. I put my arms around him and we crouched down on the pavement. I shielded his head under my jacket and we cowered with our heads bent down, expecting a further blast. But nothing came.

I don't want to remember anymore, but my heart surges with guilt and anger at myself as I sit on the bed beside him, going over it all in my mind. I should have been there for him. I should have been in the pub with him; he was in there, on his own, without me. Our first official invite to something as a couple and I'd managed to screw that up. I should have been there and I should have been the one to get him out. A few minutes more, he would have been in the explosion. Trampled on, kicked in the head by the panic stricken people determined to get out, left on the floor for unconscious, if I'd have been there he'd have been ok, it wouldn't have happened.

But I wasn't there, and it's all gone now...I didn't get him out. It was Zainab.

The next events were a blur, fire engines arrived, people were milling around everywhere, ambulances arrived. Tam kept looking at us but couldn't speak, Masood and Zainab blanked me continuously and then they all just disappeared inside their house and never came back out. We waited to see the paramedics, in the street, they looked Syed over and advised me possible concussion might occur, but to go home for now and let him sleep. Told me to keep him quiet and get him to drink plenty of water, and have a cup of tea with sugar for the shock. If his head felt bad in the morning I was to ring the hospital. Syed didn't speak through any of the examination, and seemed distracted, looking round constantly. Then at the end he looked at me suddenly and said, "I need to lie down". He was calmer now, and we walked slowly back to the flat; he was very wobbly and stumbled a couple of times. I wrapped my arms around him fiercely, overcome with emotion.

"Shall I carry you?"

"I'm ok, I'll make it, you'll do your back in". He staggered a little as we reached the front door and I had to put both arms under his shoulders to support him and hold him up, as we went upstairs. As soon as we were in he collapsed on the sofa. I took his jacket off, and turned him and pulled his legs up onto the sofa, trying to make him comfortable. He had the strangest expression on his face, his big eyes all shining and a faint smile playing around the corner of his lips.

"Sy...you alright"? I crouched down in front of him. "You're not all there are you? I'm gonna make you a cup of tea, and I'll get you some water as well. Okay hun?" I realised as I stood up I was shaking myself; I hadn't realised before. He looked at me and nodded, silently, and then suddenly grabbed my hand and stopped me from walking to the kitchen. His expression was impossible to read, but he seemed hypnotised.

"Mum got me out. She came back in for me – she got me out."

"Well yeah, I know, I was there, I saw, - thank goodness she did". I didn't really know what to say.

I wasn't sure if I liked how grateful he seemed, of course anyone is grateful when someone has saved their life but...he seemed to think it was an incredible thing that she'd done. I felt uneasy, but this was most definitely not the time to _go there._ And she had got him out. No matter what I thought of the woman, it was a brave thing to do, but then I would have done the same thing. I was churned with a mixture of conflicting emotions. I'm in shock, I told myself, we both need sweet tea, and cake or something. I made the tea, and brought it back in, with some fruit cake to go with it, and a big jug of water. Syed looked as if he would be spark out any second, laying face down with his arm hanging over the edge of the sofa.

"Come on honey, into bed, you're exhausted". I helped him gently into bed, taking off his smokey clothes and got him into his old comfy pyjama top. He refused the bottoms, protesting tiredness, like an irritable child. His hair smelled of smoke but I couldn't have cared less, mine probably did as well. The smell of it still seemed to be coming in the flat even though all the windows were closed. We drank the tea, and he ate a bit of cake, and then drank a whole glass of water in furious gulps. He sank back into the pillows, and smiled up me.

"Thanks, I'll have a bit of a sleep". He looked beautiful, but battered. I brushed his hair out of his eyes.

"You do that hun". To my surprise, he went to sleep almost instantly, without another word.

And so now he's sleeping steadily, peacefully, in front of me. My eyes feast on his beautiful face, that I had said a silent prayer of thanks for, earlier this evening. I've never done that. I didn't feel silly; as soon as he fell asleep I dropped to my knees by the bed and said silently, Thank You God, Thank You for saving him. No qualms about it. I had to do _something,_ make some gesture, if only for myself, to mark the moment. Perhaps make a gesture to something higher, if I do believe there is anything? I'm not sure.

I am looking now at his long black lashes and how they curl prettily upwards at the ends, his long arched eyebrows that frame those beautiful eyes. His long handsome nose, a lovely Asian nose, as I always call it. Have I ever told him that? I regard his soft plump lips, rose pink, framed by the light delicate stubble of his upper lip and chin and how it grows down his throat. The gash on his head has congealed and settled down, and his hair around it is a bit sticky with blood. I will wash it away tomorrow morning, I tell myself. His black hair ruffles around him, that wild unruly mass that I love to run my fingers through. He's sleeping on his side, curled up under the covers in a foetal position. I realise I'm nearly crying again, and stop myself. I get into bed beside him, not bothering to get undressed properly, suddenly overcome with tiredness too, a great longing for sleep. He's snuggled deep under the covers, and I sink down alongside, careful not to wake him, and close my eyes.

A little while later I am drifting in and out of consciousness. I'm not sure how long I've been laying there. I feel a hand on my shirt but I can't move; I'm in that dream like state, weighted down with sleep, heavy and unable to move. The buttons are being undone. I'm dreaming... I know I'm dreaming. Now fingers trace across my chest, stroking gently across my hairs, over my muscles, and finally creep up to my neck, my face, across the outline of my lips... – I startle awake. He's propped up on one elbow, gazing down at me.

"Sorry, I dropped off. Are you ok – how are feeling?" I'm wide awake now.

"No need to be sorry, I shouldn't have woken you. I'm feeling okay, I think". His voice is grave, serious, and that strange hypnotised expression is still there; he is looking at me with tremendous intensity.

"I love you so much, Christian". It sounds like the end of a speech, very final.

I shiver and then start to say "I love you too..." but his mouth covers mine before the end of the sentence and he kisses me with a fierce intensity, climbing on top of me. He's naked and warm, an amazing miracle in my arms. Our hands caress each other's hair, moving in mutual harmony, our tongues delight themselves around each other, curling and probing with each kiss. It seems to go on...and on and on and on...

We stop in between passionate kisses for little breaks, looking intensely into each other's eyes. He showers me with smaller kisses all over my face, my eyelids, the end of my nose, my forehead, and I follow him and do the same – as if we are dancing across each other's faces with our lips. I turn him over and onto his back, and kiss him over his upper body, savouring every moment, over his chest, across the adorable little tuft of black chest hair that grows at the top, and down the treasure trail to his navel. His eyes are shining, watching me, as I look up sometimes to check his response. There are bruises coming out across his shoulders, I notice, where he was trampled. I stop, thinking I should slow it down - he's poorly, and I am not sure if he is even ready for sex. He regards me seriously, and silently, looking a bit surprised and then suddenly sits up and gives me a little push back onto my back. We always read each other like this. He climbs back on top of me, and begins kissing my arms, my collarbone, over my chest, then stops to suck upon each nipple slowly and tenderly. They harden instantly and I lay there in a daze, flooded with passion, hardened and aching to go further, my cock straining against the fabric of my jeans.

"I should be doing this to you...you're the one who is injured".

"You were doing it to me. Then you stopped, so I figured it was my turn". He is smiling, looking up and then down at me. Then he begins to lick me in slow circles around my navel, and then starts to go downwards. I groan, unable to stop myself, but then he stops again, and buries his face in my stomach. I feel a wetness spreading across my skin. Then he looks up at me, and I see the wetness of tears on his cheeks. When he speaks his voice shakes with emotion.

"I'm ok. I'm alive. I'm so glad to be here, so glad to be here with you. Let me celebrate." He suddenly breaks into an enormous, mischievous smile, his head level with the waistband of my jeans, gazing up at me with his enormous brown eyes. He undoes the button of my fly with his left hand, and then takes the bit of the zip between his teeth and pulls it slowly down. I watch with delight: he's never done this trick before. My hardened cock is now straining to be free and he suddenly sits up and pulls my jeans down, yanking them off my legs and over the ends of my feet, and then throws them backwards over his head, with a flourish.

I begin to laugh, unable to stop myself, joy bubbling up inside me. "You're mad".

He grins at me impishly and then pulls down my pants with equal vigour, and casts them somewhere over his left shoulder, onto the carpet. He lays forward and takes my erect cock in his mouth, slowly at first, unhurried and gentle, and then increases the pace, stopping occasionally to lick me slowly up and down the length of my shaft and run his tongue over the tip at the end, in the way that he knows I adore. He stops to regard my cock in between licks and sucks, looking at it with the same serious expression, almost reverential.

"It's so lovely". He kisses it up and down and then takes me back in his mouth and begins a more powerful sucking, with serious intent.

"Sy...agh, ah, oher..." I'm moaning and writhing now, under his expert lips and tongue. I lean up on my elbows and look down at him, his eyes are closed as he sucks and then he groans himself, and I see one hand is down between his legs; his own cock is engorged and he is stroking himself up and down. Then suddenly I don't want it like this, me laying back and him doing all the work. I move his mouth gently off me and cup his face in my hands.

"Lay on top of me" I command. He smiles and obeys, climbing back up and laying on top of me, and we embrace. I hold him close for several minutes, feeling our hearts hammering together in one rhythm.

"I love you more than anything in the world Syed Masood. You are my darling, my whole world". I feel close to tears again.

"I know. You're my world, too". His voice sounds muffled with emotion, his face pressed into my left shoulder.

I move his mouth back to me and kiss him again probing deeply with my tongue. Then we turn on our sides, in harmony, facing each other, reading each other perfectly. I take a tube of lube from the bedside drawer and smooth a little onto the palm of my hand, then squeeze a little onto his. We entwine our legs together, and I take his cock in my hand and press it close to mine, and then we begin to rub up and down together, slowly at first and then increasing in rhythm...he brushes my hand away and takes over himself...rubbing our cocks alongside each other and against each other. I take them back...taking my turn...and we go back and forth like this, moaning and groaning as we push our bodies together, a blur of rubbing and kisses and tenderness mixed with fierce passion. His other arm is squashed under me, and around me, his hand grabbing at my buttocks, teasing between them and then running up and down my back, and I do the same to him with my other arm, our movements mirrored together.

"I want to come with you, at the same time". His voice is hoarse, urgent, his face buried in my neck, licking and gently biting it.

"Oh..ah...okay"...my movements are frantic, and I know I'm moving upwards now to the final moments. I groan, unashamedly, realising blissfully that I've never groaned or gasped with such abandon with any man before... that I never want any man in my arms but him.

"Oh...Christian...Oh, I'm so nearly there...I'm so..." he grips me tightly, writhing against me, his moans fill the air and they send me over the edge. "Come with me then, now, now!" I shout with pleasure and then we are on our way, he shouts my name and then we cry out together, coming simultaneously, shuddering and moaning and exploding like champagne, rubbing ourselves into oblivion. It seems to go on for ages. With a final shudder, we finish and then wrap our arms tightly around each other and entwine our legs once again. We lay there a long time.

He breaks the silence first. "Mmm...that was amazing, I so love you, you are an incredible lover, you make it different every time".

I giggle. "You are incredible too, you are the only person I've done that with, the only person I've ever been able to do that with, both together, at the same time".

"You're the only person I've ever done it with too".

"Well, that's not difficult is it, with your track record". I'm teasing, knowing that in these moments like this I can.

"Oi, cheeky!" He slaps me on the bum, but is playing along. "You are such a naughty man".

"I think it's you who are naughty, Mr Masood". I bury my face in his neck, smiling with delight at our silly playful game. Then we go quiet again.

"I'm never letting you out on your own again, not after tonight". Now I'm not sure if I am joking.

He's quiet, and then says..."that's alright with me".

We become tender again, mumbling more words of adoration and joy and then sleep comes properly. We curl around each other, embryonic and as one.

I'm in the kitchen, and look out through the blinds across the square. People are milling around and there is a huge clear up operation going on, the broken glass being swept, the muck and the debris washed away with hoses, men at the windows of the Vic boarding it up. It looks blind and blackened. I suddenly spot Zainab walking through the square, coming toward the direction of the flat. My stomach churns. Is she coming _here_, I wonder? She stops to talk to someone. I feel a swell of gratitude sweep through me and decide instantly that if _this_ _is the moment,_ if she is coming here to talk, then I must be prepared to let everything that's gone before go, and make up too. She is his mum, and I know he wants her back and misses her desperately, despite his frequent protestations to me that he's put it all behind him. Some nights when he's asleep beside me, I see him dreaming, his eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids, and then he says 'mum' and he's restless, fitful, having some conversation with her in his dreams, trying over and over to make her understand him. Understand us, perhaps.

I hear the sound of the bedcovers rustling and turn away from the window and dart back into the lounge. He is sitting up in bed, hair all over the place, rubbing his hand across his eyes.

"Morning lovely". I smile with relief and happiness.

He smiles at back at me, that adoring smile.

"I must have slept for hours, you should have woken me."

"Rest, they said, they told me to let you sleep. How are you feeling?"

"Okay...I guess...a bit woozy. But my head feels ok. My back aches though, and my shoulders hurt".

"You're covered in bruises". I can see more clearly this morning the marks across his shoulders and collarbone, still red and turning yellow in places where he was kicked and knocked about.

"I'll live". He flashes an enormous grin at me and then gets out of bed, and staggers toward me. He's stark naked and I feel a little thrill at how casual he is with it, how unashamed and free he is within the four walls of our flat. He puts his arms around my neck, gazing up at me. I wrap mine around him and we embrace tightly. After a minute, I release him from my hug and then he grabs his dressing gown off the sofa and puts it on. He gestures to the kitchen window over my shoulder.

"What's going on out there?"

"Big clear up operation, everyone's mucking in by the looks of it". I grab him to stop him going toward the window, not sure if I want him to see Zainab, and I wonder where she is. I suddenly panic a bit, _is she outside our front door by now?_

"Back to bed you". I steer him toward the bed again.

"I need the loo. And a cup of coffee too!"

"Right you are – coming right up". I watch him disappear into the bathroom and then move back into the kitchen, and look out of the window once more. There is no sign of Zainab, now, nowhere that I can see anyway. Frowning, I turn and put the kettle on. I realise I don't want her to show up at all, not right now, I want to savour these moments and I can't imagine any kind of a conversation where we could suddenly all sit round with cups of tea and have a chat. Not after all the hateful words that have been said. It seems laughable now that I thought she might knock. And he's not dressed – not a good moment at all. I realise something else too: that I am afraid. Now she's done this, it's difficult for me to utterly dislike her, it's made it _complicated,_ but most of all, it fills me with dread. I am upset that he's lost them, but at the same time, it's wonderful to have him all to myself, and I can't stand the thought of all _that_ starting up again, all the misery and woe, just as we are settling down as a couple. I wonder with a shudder if she has the power to infiltrate his mind, make him guilty again, punish him more by being in contact – she might try to influence him again to feel he is a sinner? Then I wonder if I am being selfish.

A little while later I take two mugs of coffee back into the lounge; he's back in bed, sat upright, staring into space, his strange expression is back, the shining eyes, the look of, (I realise now this morning), a strange kind of _excitement._

"There you go". I put his mug on the bedside table. "What a night eh?"

"Yeah, it was brilliant". He takes a sip and smiles at me, coquettishly, in that flirtatious way of his that makes me all a flutter.

"I meant the fire, you nincompoop". I grin back at him.

"Oh yeah, that, it was a bit dramatic I suppose". He rolls his eyes, keeping the flirtatious tone going, but I sense a falseness now; he's keeping me at bay somehow. Suddenly I realise I want to talk, about all of it, and about my feelings and fears.

"Sy, don't - stop mucking about. You could have – "

"Well, I didn't, did I Christian?" He cuts me off, and looks straight at me, very firm and serious and then falls into silence. I wonder why he is being like this, bantering and then avoiding any serious discussion, but I let it go. The intensity of our lovemaking had maybe said it all last night, I reflect, perhaps that was all that was needed. Perhaps as usual, I am pushing things.

"Would you do something for me, as soon as you can?" The big eyes are back, but his tone is hesitant, a bit quieter.

"Of course I will". I'm all ears now.

"Would you go to the Minute Mart and get me a thank you card, - a card for mum. I want to thank her, make her see how grateful I am for getting me out, for not ignoring me".

"You don't need to be grateful, she's your mother!" I realise as soon as I've said it, it's the wrong thing to say. I see the veil of stubbornness come down across his eyes; see him closing off from me.

"She got me out, she came back in and got me".

"Well why wouldn't she? She bloody should – you don't need to grovel to her! She should have been straight round this morning to see how you are!" I curse myself inwardly for not letting it go. There is silence for a few seconds. He looks into his coffee, avoiding my gaze. I sigh.

"I'll go... if you want this, this thing, then, of course, I'll go". I'm sorry now, sorry for getting it wrong and I have that horrible feeling I always get, when I've failed to read it right, failed to read _him_ right.

"Thanks." He looks up at me again, his eyes all huge and his expression has changed to one of pleading, he hesitates, and then launches into a speech at me.

"Don't you see what this means, don't you see that this is the most incredible thing for me, that there could be a way back for me with her...with them? I want to make sure she knows, understands, that I am grateful, that it means a lot to me. After everything I did – she still cares, she didn't want me to die. She thinks I am worth saving! Don't you see – this is a sign for me, a sign of hope!" His voice is firm, and a little shrill, persistent.

"I know". I can hardly stand to listen to some of this, so I look down at the carpet.

'_Thinks I am worth saving'._...I can't bear it. I look up into his eyes, those eyes that are shining with anticipation. I smile back at him, hoping it doesn't look too forced, and take a final swig of my coffee. "I know, Sy, its okay. I can see it must be amazing for you".

And so I let it go. It's happened now, and there is nothing I can do, his hope is rekindled, burning again, that there can be understanding and reconciliation between him and his mother, maybe even Masood. I can't deny this, stop this, and I have no right, although his speech makes me feel sick with fear for what might lay ahead. I've only just got him away. I feel like crying again, and for all the wrong reasons now.

A few minutes later, and I'm getting ready to go out of the door, doing up my jacket.

"I won't be long, two ticks and I'll be back. I'll get some stuff for breakfast too, we haven't got any eggs, - fancy scrambled eggs on toast?"

"I'd love that yes, I'm starving actually. You will get a nice card though, won't you?" He's almost pleading, and I don't want that.

"I'll get the best card I can find, I promise you". My voice is firm to reassure him, and I walk over to the bed, look into those big brown eyes, kiss him on the lips, and then go.

Walking down the street, across the square to the shop, my eyes are peeled for any sign of her. No sign. I approach the Minute Mart, and then suddenly she's right in front of me, coming out of the shop, a large carrier bag in one hand. Our eyes lock.

Her expression is...blank. Or is it? I see something, a glimmer, for a split second, and then the shutters come down. Patrick suddenly appears in the doorway, waving a fistful of something.

"Zainab, you forgot your change". She doesn't take her eyes off me.

"Oh, I didn't realise". She is still looking at me, but then drops her eyes and turns to him.

"Thank you Patrick. I'm a little distracted this morning, not surprising after last night, it was terrible wasn't it, so awful. I've hardly slept! I'm making a big breakfast for my whole family, it's so good to have everyone I love safe and sound and under my roof. That's all that matters isn't it? Being with the people you love, being with those you value – I have everyone I want and care about in the world back at home in my kitchen, and I intend to cook them a _very_ good breakfast!" She positively beams at him at the end of this, and then turns on her heel, almost with a flourish, her back to me as she walks quickly away. I know that little speech was meant for me, no doubt about that.

I stand there for a while, watching her walk away. She doesn't look back, not once. Then I walk into the shop. I browse the cards, making sure I pick the best one, the nicest one, as he wanted. I read the words, choosing something sentimental, trying to imagine myself saying them to her, because I should say them too. Even though I know it's hopeless, I do it, and buy it. Then I get the eggs, some nice bread, and some mushrooms, and pay for it all, my heart aching. And walk slowly back to the flat. I know now that I'll let him write in it, let him say what he needs to say, even though at this moment I know it is certain to fall on deaf ears. I'll probably be sticking it through the Masood's letterbox later on today. I picture Masood finding it first, ripping it up, before she sees it. Or maybe she will rip it up. He needs to have hope, he needs to believe there is a way back. I do it, as we all do things even when we know it's hopeless, because sometimes you have to let people believe what they need to believe. So I do it, because I love him.


End file.
